


He Misses Him

by Joltaire



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: M/M, i dont know, im crying so hard and i wrote it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-18
Updated: 2013-08-18
Packaged: 2017-12-23 21:45:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/931419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Joltaire/pseuds/Joltaire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Funny how one thing happens, and your entire life goes spiraling downward, isn't it?</p>
            </blockquote>





	He Misses Him

**Author's Note:**

> This is so depressing. Why are all depressing fics E/R and Grantaire dies?

The thing He missed most is His hair.

The way the wind blew through it on a Sunday in fall as they’re walking through the park.

The way He would run His fingers through it as He marked His collarbone with kisses.

The way it curled after He got out of the shower.

And now it’s gone.

He’s gone.

He’s fucking gone.

And it was entirely His fault.

He was driving to the bar.

He wasn’t paying attention.

He should’ve just kept driving through that red light.

If He did, He would still be here.

He hasn’t driven for months;

He hasn’t gone to that bar in months.

After it happened, he got a tattoo. It was hidden, because it was a personal tattoo. Also His only one.

Now He’s gone.

They had to cut life support after four weeks.

“It's too much money.”

_Bullshit._

His parents could’ve at least given him some money to keep Him alive.

But He’s the reason His parents hate Him.

And now He’s gone. Forever.

The tattoo is simple. It was based off their first meeting, in freshman year at college. He was giving a lecture.

_“... And in Canada they have a Prime Minister.”_

_“I like my ministers medium rare, thank you.”_

_He rolled his eyes and continued. “As I was saying they have Prime Ministers, and Members of Parliament, and many other positions. In the provinces they have a premier –“_

_“I’d like to see the premier of your ass.” The teacher shot him a look._

_“Will you shut up?”_

_“Hmmm...”_

_He pretended to think_.

_“No.”_

_He narrowed_   _his eyes. “Be serious.”_

_“I am wild.”_

The tattoo is simply, _Be serious_ on one ankle, and, _I am wild_ on the other.

He misses Him every day.

All of the pictures of them are in private, they don’t talk about it. It’s like he’s trying to make Him disappear. But, he goes in that room, the untouched room they shared. It still smells like him. All of the pictures are there, the clothes on the floor, the bed unmade. Exactly how he left it. He goes in there and stands there, remembering everything. The first kiss, the first I love you’s, the first time they had sex, on that bed. Just remembering it.

And a tear rolls down His cheek, silently.

He goes to the room He made so the other one wasn’t disturbed.

He lies on the bed and cries.

Every night.

He didn’t love anyone else after that, except the son he adopted two years after.

He named him Grantaire, so He would still have an R to love.

_“But, daddy, haven’t you every loved?”_

_“Yes, but I’m not telling you.”_

“Please?”

_And He would cave in to little R’s puppy dog face, and explain it all._

_“His name was Grantaire, like yours, except it was his last name. He looked like me, but he had dark hair, and he painted. And one day, we were driving to meet all of your aunts and uncles at a bar, and a driver hit us. I lived, but he was in a coma for four weeks, before they cut off his life line.” A tear rolled down his cheek. “He was my everything. I left the room exactly how he left it, the locked one. I cry every night. I got a tattoo, something I would never do for anyone else. It was nearly four years ago, and I remember it all.” He stopped for a moment, before adding, “I remember everything,” in a whisper._

And when little R grew up, he found his way to painting, because it knew it would make his father happy.

He couldn’t tell him that His paintings would always be better.

He kept all of His paintings in a studio, all lined up, covered, for no one else to see.

The only ones out are the ones He gave to his friends for Christmas, but they take them down when He comes over. When He died of old age, little R had Him buried next to Him, never sold the apartment, and kept that room exactly the same.

**Author's Note:**

> I began crying when I wrote about the room by the way.


End file.
